It never fails. After 30 kilometers, your brain enters a state I call pilgrim mush—a delightful cocktail of fatigue, hunger, and the vague misunderstanding in your own mind that common sense no longer apply to you.

In my case, this led to a tragic error. I wandered out for dinner in what began as a a clear sky and transformed, with all the subtlety of a Shakespearean plot twist, into a downpour. Naturally, my rain gear; jacket, pants, dignity was back in the albergue, neatly laid out on my bed like a shrine to better planning.

Dripping wet and muttering prayers to Saint James, I sloshed back to the convent only to discover the doors were locked. Not just locked, but medievally locked, with a sign in three languages, no less explaining that from 17:15 to 19:45, entry is forbidden. Apparently, even modern pilgrims must endure penance.

Cue the impatient Frenchman. He rang the bell. He knocked. He read the sign and knocked again, as if it were a riddle he could brute-force. The nuns, however, were mid-chant, likely summoning divine patience for moments just like this. I watched the door remain unmoved. The Lord may be forgiving. The sisters’ lock schedule is not.

Embarrassed by proximity, I did what any self-respecting soggy pilgrim would do: I retreated to the nearest café to dry off and plot my next move. As I stepped in, the young woman behind the counter gently informed me she was closing. I sighed the sigh of a man denied both sanctuary and sandwich.

But fortune, in the form of human kindness, smiled once again. She was from El Salvador, and we struck up a warm, familiar chat that made me forget the cold. Before I left, she told me she would open at 07:30 the next morning just in time for me to swing by for breakfast before my next trek.

And just like that, tomorrow’s forecast includes good coffee, a warm smile, and if I can remember my rain gear, a dry start.